


A Boy Shaped Hole In My Heart

by locknkey



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Consensual Underage Sex, Depression, Eating Disorders, Frottage, M/M, Pre-Series, Violent Thoughts, Weecest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-31
Updated: 2016-12-31
Packaged: 2018-09-13 15:38:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,013
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9130819
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/locknkey/pseuds/locknkey
Summary: There's a space in Sam's chest with a fist clenched around it, tight and trembling, yearning for something Sam has no words for.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [dollylux](https://archiveofourown.org/users/dollylux/gifts).



“ Everyone needs a place. It shouldn’t be inside of someone else.”  
                                                                                     
                                                                                        _Richard Siken_

 

Sam's heart thumps wild in his chest and he stretches his legs further, muscles still sore from running a soccer ball up and down a field so many times that all he knew was the black, white, & green blur of ball and grass. The burn in his calves and thighs is fierce, but Sam stretches into his run, crossing blacktop, arrowing towards the Impala, his breath puffing from his mouth in foggy bursts. The sidewalk looms in his vision and he braces, plants his soles, and slides a solid six feet along ice to the car. His hands leave sweaty prints on the Impala's frosted over glass. Laughter bursts from his chest as he flings open the door and flops into the leather seat.

Dean grins bright in return, and relief floods Sam, drains away the tension he's never aware of until it leaves. Today isn't the day they'll pack their meager belongings and slink out of a town they were never really part of. For at least one more day – maybe, if Dad doesn't stumble in later after all – Sam gets to have school and soccer and Dean - relaxed, happy, and all Sam's.

Sam's favorite look is on his brother's face, adoration, hint of mischief, and eye crinkles that impossibly tip his brother's gorgeous face to beatific. It's the expression molded into Sam's heart, the one he yearns towards, his flint in a life of steel.

Dean's hand reaches out, ruffles his hair and his face changes to exaggerated disgust. “Eeew, Sam, don't get your sweat all over Baby.” Dean's hand drags across Sam's hoodie covered chest, once, twice, flip-flopping to wipe off non-existent sweat.

“I'm pretty sure fluids worse than my sweat have decorated this car.” Sam glances at the back seat.

Dean follows Sam's gaze; pink rises up from under the collar of his red Henley and paints roses across his cheeks.

Never one to back down Dean says, “Whatever, dork face, you're the Niagra Falls of sweat, and I don't want your stink fouling up my car.” To prove his point, Dean reaches across the seat, runs his thumb up Sam's neck to the pulse point behind his ear.

A dome of sweat swells on Dean's thumb, trembling, reflecting the green of Dean's scowl through a fish-eye lens.

The bubble wobbles as Dean lifts his hand. Time crawls. Dean's tongue pushes past his lips, and white teeth indent into padded flesh. Sam's immobilized, heart thumping in his temples, belly tight. Dean's tongue flashes out again licking the last traces of Sam from his thumb. Sam's muscles bunch, his fingers clench into his thighs and he hears himself pant as if from a distance.

Dean's eyelids drop, lashes flicker as his pupils swallow his irises. Syrup slow, imperceptibly, except to Sam whose awareness is Matrix fine, Dean sways, huffs a breath. Sam tilts, his cells lit electric, and he leans in.

A knock sounds on the window. Time shifts, and Sam wonders if he imagined the whole thing until he sees the tremble in Dean's hand as he shoves Sam's shoulder.

“Looks like someone wants your attention, Sammy.”

Sam looks to his right and rolls down the window. Marisa's dimples are curled around a toothy smile, and between her mittened hands is a slip of paper. “Hey, you ran off so fast I couldn't give you this before the bell rang. You asked if we could study for the history exam, so call me this weekend. Okay?” Her speech huffs out in puffs of mouth-warmed air.

On automatic Sam answers, “Sure.” Two hours ago – ten seconds ago – his heart would've been tripping over itself in anticipation of possibilities, of girl-sweet perfume and stolen kisses. Now, all he knows is she isn't Dean.

He takes the paper, and she waves the red and white striped mittens as she says, “Bye, Sam. Bye Sam's brother,” and skates her way down the sidewalk. The black bouncy curls he'd stared at with longing in class disappear just like his desire for her as she grows smaller with each push forward.

Dean slaps his chest hard. “Ooh, Sam-my-man somebodies getting lucky,” Dean says as he pulls the Impala off the curb.

Sam crumples the paper in his hand. She's not Dean.

**

It takes Sam less than an hour to figure out that the _thing_ in the car, the nothing, the less than nothing, a possibility, a maybe, still less than blood exchanged in fists, or Sam neatly stitching through Dean's flesh, changes the spaces between them from safe and close to broad and statically charged.

First it's dinner, macaroni-and-cheese with bacon bits and a crunchy top, Sam's favorite. They sit on the couch like always, but as if somehow they agreed beforehand both are a little closer to the couch arms than the center. Far enough away that their knees won't accidentally knock or their elbows brush. Sam hates it, but can't bring himself to do anything. It's two fucking inches for god's sake. He shouldn't even notice.

Every time Dean moans around a mouthful of food, Sam's intestines knot up. That noise – always irritating as hell before – reminds Sam of sounds actresses make in porn, and now that his brain has made that connection, Sam can't wipe it away, wonders if Dean sounds like that when he fucks.

Sam's so busy listening to Dean's noises while pretending to pay attention to some cop show on the television, and simultaneously not look at his brother, that he has little of himself left to eat with. His stomach flutters and Sam can't decide if it's butterflies or the flu, but either way it's ruined his appetite.

A waving hand flashes in front of his eyes. Sam jumps, eyes focused on Dean's concerned frown, spills his food on the green, then brown, then green again carpet. He freezes wondering what other tragedies this carpet has witnessed.

“Sammy?” Deans concerned tone breaks through Sam's stupor. He raises his eyes, glance stuttering at Dean's lips before moving onto his brother's questioning gaze. Sam's shoulder is cold, empty of the hand Dean usually puts there when he's worried. Sam misses it, and his belly aches. Dean says, “I'll clean that up. What's up, Sam?”

Sam shakes his head, reigns in the hysterical laughter about to spill over his lips, because nothings wrong. Right? “Sorry. Tired I guess.”

Sam grabs their plates and takes them to the kitchen. He runs the hot water, plugs the drain, and listens to Dean toss the spilled food into the trash. No hand covers the small of Sam's back or runs up to settle between his shoulder blades. No rough voice offers to dry the dishes.

Sam stacks them on an old embroidered tea towel that was ten cents at Salvation Army. He waits at the sink for a voice that never calls. Finally he shuffles back to the living area. Dean's fallen asleep with _Popular Mechanics_ spread over his lap.

**

Torture, that's how Sam names it. His life was never fine, now it's rotten, a tomato eaten from the inside by a fat green worm.

Small things were never meant to be this much, never meant to blow holes in Sam's foundation that make him frail and unsteady. Torture done right will make you give up your darkest wishes. Kiss Dean or kill him, either will do. Torture done well makes you crazy, and Sam is losing the edges of his mind to the tiniest of absences.

Things Sam didn't even know shored up his life start disappearing in the days following the-thing-that-shall-never-be-named.

Dean doesn't ruffle his hair.

Dean doesn't punch his arm.

There's no shuffle-fight in getting ready for bed. Dean goes first, closes the bathroom door, already under the covers and pretending to snore by the time Sam is done. It's loud. Sam takes the couch.

Tuesday Dean tells him he'll have to take the bus the rest of the week.

Friday Dean announces he's in love – not with Sam, never with Sam – with Belinda. Belinda that makes Dean wave his hands in an hourglass and give Sam a wink. Dean saunters out the door, collar of Dad's coat flipped up, and promises to be back by ten. At midnight, Sam loses the fight to sleep and spends the night on the couch.

The next six nights Sam crawls under the covers, lids heavy, waited as long as he could, no Dean. Each morning Dean smells like booze, and sprawls half off the too small couch.

Sam pushes his food around on his plate, but eats little. Dean doesn't ask, doesn't pat his shoulder, doesn't threaten to shove it down Sam if he doesn't damn well eat. Bacon bits and instant mashed potatoes skim across the top of the toilet water before Sam flushes. Sam doesn't know if the ache in his belly is hunger or love.

Dean still calls him stupid names, and reminds him to brush his teeth. He makes Sam's lunches, and bitches about his too-long-hair. It's as if the Dean that Sam remembers was a fever dream, and this has been the reality all along. Sometimes, Sam thinks he's losing his mind.

Sam quits doing his school work the week before holiday break. The voice in his head reminds him of why it's important, but Sam can't. He just _can't._

**

Long standing tradition dictates that the weekend after school ends is for a movie marathon. Last year was _Star Wars_ This year Dean badgered him into _Die Hard._ That was before.

Saturday morning Dean left early because he was called into work at the garage. He promised to be back by six. Dean's never broken a promise to Sam.

Sam shakes the pan over the flames, listens to the popping of the corn, and wonders if his flesh would melt or char if he stuck his hand in the fire. Gas stoves are better than electric for this. Dean's always said so. Soon, the fluffy white puffs plop over the edges. Sam puts it in a giant flecked bowl that Dean swore was something called Bakelite that he saw on _Antiques Road Show,_ and was worth a couple hundred dollars to head-case collectors. Sometimes PBS is the only channel they get. Sam thinks Dean's full of shit on this one though. No one would want this ugly puke green bowl flecked with yellow and peach.

Sam pours the butter melting on the stove over the popcorn and adds season salt. He doesn't look at the clock, doesn't check to see if the little hand has ticked past six.

He moves into the living area, slumps down on the couch and cruises channels. He won't eat the popcorn until Dean comes.

“Sammy, I'm home.” The words are Dean's poor imitation of Ricky Ricardo, and Sam swivels to watch Dean come through the door, three movies held up like prizes in his right hand. Light halos him from behind – a clear winter white that steals Sam's breath – he's beautiful even when he starts sniffing the air like a hunting hound. “Popcorn? You're going to make someone a wonderful wife someday, Sammy.”

“Fuck you, Dean.”

Dean stills, eyes locked to Sam's. His lips part.

Then it's gone, whatever Sam thought he saw, wanted to see. In it's place are angry little teeth gnawing on his ribs, and sharp pains radiate up his esophagus to choke him. Dean marches forward slaps him on the back. _Damn._ Sam restrains himself from pushing into that touch, but it's gone. “You okay, Sammy?” The green gazing down at him is filled with concern. Sam almost says no in order to bask in Dean's attention for a few seconds more. It's sunlight and rain, food and drink, joy and love, everything, and Sam is starved.

He says instead, “Yeah. Popcorn went down the wrong way.”

Dean settles next to him after putting in the first movie. Their hands meet in the bowl as Bruce Willis crawls through a duct. For Sam, the next four hours is Dean's heat seeping into his side, brushes of fingers that steal his breath and fumble his heart. Sam soaks in it, doesn't dare to miss the familiar arm around his shoulders or move closer. Sam pulls in deep breaths, catching whiffs of motor oil and Old Spice. He watches avidly as Dean sucks butter from fingers with oil-dirty nails and slurps as if he'll never taste food again. Sam gets a wink and a thump on the head for his efforts. Arousal shoots straight to his groin and he shifts, dares to brush his elbow against Dean's forearm. It's perfect. As Bruce Willis shouts, “Yippie ki yay, motherfucker,” Dean rises from the couch and ruffles Sam's hair. Sam doesn't sigh, doesn't turn and pull Dean's fingers between his lips, but for a minute he imagines slipping Dean's fingers into his mouth and running his tongue over the ridge of Dean's nails, having Dean's sweat, and dirt, and dead skin cells as his nourishment.

The spell is broken when Dean says, “I'm going out, Sammy. Don't wait up.”

Anger spears through his chest, eviscerating his perfect moment. Sam's temporary good feelings fall away, pulled into the grungy carpet to whither with the dust. “Fine, whatever.” He won't look at Dean, can't.

Dean chuckles. Sam envisions himself curling up a fist and punching Dean until his pretty looks turn into red sauce.

 Dean says, “Aw, don't be jealous, Sammy. Someday you'll grow up and get your dick sucked too.”

 Sam sees himself pushing Dean to his knees, blood covering his gums, Sam's bloody fists in his hair as he guides Dean's mouth where he wants it most.

He is jealous, but not in the way Dean is implying. He doesn't want Claire or Jenny or Belinda, doesn't want their cherry-balm, slick kisses or to part their pink trembling thighs. He wants to _be_ them, wants Dean's calloused hands rough on his tender belly, Dean's thick cock clamped between his ass cheeks. Jealousy burns his cheeks red and he lets go with vitriolic words, “Yeah that's it. I totally wish it was me taking the risk of catching gonorrhea, or AIDS, or herpes.”

“You waited long to use that line, McBitchy? Besides I suit up.” The words bring more moving pictures to Sam's eyes as Dean closes the motel door behind him. Dean standing over him, condom in hand. The Sam behind his eyelids shakes his head and says, _I want it bare, want to feel you in me, want to leak you out, and watch you lick it up._

Sam can't move. Tiredness seeps over him, lethargic but not sleepy. The will to even touch himself taken out the door along with Dean.

Hours later a rumble he knows well brings him out of a restless sleep, a nightmare filled with white winter and himself, the rest of the world gone. Sorrow lingers as Sam wakes.

Sam knows what happens next. He won't hear it first hand with winter pressing frosty against the thin panes of motel glass, but he'll experience it nonetheless.

Last summer, in Michigan, that same rumble sliced under his bedroom window that was held open with a slat of weathered wood, the smell of lilacs pungent in the humid air. A squeak announced Baby's doors opening, then Sam heard them, little kitten whimpers, _ah, uh, oh,_ sent straight into his ears and arrowed down his middle, little cock fattening, trigger snapped with the knowledge that Dean was creating those sounds. Ten seconds, a handful of slick sounds, and Sam could barely get his hand around himself before he was shooting all over his penguin pajamas.

Fueled by the past and the now, Sam slips a hand into his sweat pants – used to be Dean's – and runs his hand over his dick, past his balls, touches the tight furl of muscle, circles there while he imagines Dean's back, muscles bunched and fluid, sensuous as eats out some girl Sam only knows as Belinda. When he slips his finger past that first ring of muscle, his body bows and seizes, orgasm wrenched from trembling limbs. He licks his hand clean before sleeping.

**

There's a space in Sam's chest with a fist clenched around it, tight and trembling, yearning for something Sam has no words for. At Christmas, the space throbs and burns the most, threatens to explode in snotty tears and raged insults, collapse upon itself and take hope with it. Right now, as Sam sets out the eggnog, splashes it with some Crown Royal Dad had stashed under the sink, that space is glowing and warm, excited, hopeful.

A deck of cards, an old scrabble set, and the TV tuned to Christmas specials airing one after another, it's a Sam and Dean Christmas Eve tradition. There's cocktail weenies, and cheese and crackers that Sam lifted from the seven-eleven. All of their blankets and pillows are piled on the pull out couch. He lights several small candles that he got from Woolworth, _not romatic, not really_ and admires the glow that makes the room almost seem homey. All that's missing is Dean. Sam checks the clock, measures his breaths against the second hand, both moving slow, precise little ticks marking Dean's absence.

The big hand clicks to seven and the clock whines, the little trap door, where Sam supposes a bird once nested, opens, then closes. Reverie broken, Sam dashes into the bedroom – this motel actually has a separate front room and a bedroom with a closing door – one that went from allowing them privacy to being a barrier – Sam likes to think of the luxury as a Christmas gift from Dad, though it's more likely that the room was the only one left. Sam moves his duffel bag, sets aside the scratchy army blanket, and admires his stash. Turns out Ding Dongs are better than currency in Bumfuck, Nebraska. Easy to pocket, and he usually nets an easy two bucks per each for the risk.

He runs his hands over the plastic casing that houses a wrench set. Two states back Dean had paused in the aisle at Wal-Mart, hefted the long metal pieces in his hands, and murmured something about, “Baby,” under his breath. Between lawn mowing money and his Ding Dong business Sam had saved enough for the tools, a new hoodie, and a stack of Moon Pies that Dean hoards every time they pass through the south.

Sam wraps the gifts in newsprint and adds ribbon he bought off a girl in Minnesota.

He stacks the meager prizes under the tree he set up on an old milk crate. It's not really a tree. It's more of an evergreen branch in a vase of water. Sam had dug a few ornaments out of trash cans along alleys right after Thanksgiving. Dean had taught him that people throw away a few things every year while decorating trees, and Sam had scoured the best parts of town for cast-offs. He found a string of lights at the Dollar store. It's pretty in a Charlie Brown sort of way.

Sam settles in with a hot cocoa and two Ding Dongs. He falls asleep somewhere between _Santa Claus Is Coming To Town_ and _A Year Without A Santa Claus._

Sam wakes curled around a pillow. The candles are mere flickers now. As he sits up Dean comes through the door. Joy wars with utter pissiness. It's got to be past ten by now.

Dean tosses three packages onto the hide-a-bed and says, “Merry Christmas, Sammy.”

“Where've you been?” It comes out blurred with sleep rather than the venom Sam was hoping for.

“Date with Belinda, but we still have plenty of time. It's not like we haven't seen these shows a hundred times anyway."

Dean won't meet Sam's eyes. He's looking around the room, and moves the packages next to the others under the tree. “Nice job, Sammy. It looks great.”

Sam explodes, pent up emotions driving shouted words from a place so angry it burns. “A date, you had a date tonight. Jesus Christ, Dean, What the hell? It's Christmas Eve. We always spend Christmas Eve together.”

“Belinda promised to make it worth my while, Sammy. How could I turn that down? Besides, I got you something you are really going to love.”

“God, you are such an ass, Dean. All I want for Christmas is you. My brother, here with me. That's all.”

Dean looks around, eyes landing on each candle Sam had placed with such care just hours ago, and says, “Sam, we – we can't, you and I, it's... just no, Sammy.”

Sam jumps off the bed, so close to tears he can barely hold them back, his fists clenched at his sides, he screams, “That's not what I meant. I don't care about that. I want you to quit treating me like a leper.” Sam swallows, anger trickling away he says quietly, “I fucking hate you, Dean.”

Something cracks in Dean's demeanor, guilt widens his eyes, and he reaches for Sam. Sam darts out of the way. Dean drops his hand and looks at his feet.

Sam can't even slam the door, completely drained, boneless, he collapses on his side on the bed, pulls his knees to his chest. He muffles his sobs in the fabric bunched up around his forearms, the too long sleeves of one of Dean's hand-me-downs.

The door opens and Sam wipes the snot from his nose, tries to swallow a sob, but it comes out anyway like a pathetic dying animal.

The bed dips and squeaks, and his brother curls around him, an ellipsis to Sam's comma. An arm snakes under his neck and Dean nudges his shoulder with the other hand, “C'mon, kiddo, turn over.”

Sam does. He buries his face in Dean's chest, fists bunched into the fabric of Dean's t-shirt and he let's go of every terrible feeling he's had for the last month. He sobs it into Dean's chest until the fabrics wet, and Sam has no more tears to shed. Dean's hand soothes through his hair, scritches at his nape, and Sam clings, soaks it in.

Sam needs this, more than breathing, more than fitting in, can't begin to imagine what his life would look like without Dean, the Dean he's accustomed to, the one who holds him close, and ruffles his hair, keeps him too close until he almost smothers with it. Sam would give away that moment in the car and everything that came with it, doesn't want the hurt of it, the razor slices that scar his heart every time he looks at his brother.

Sam gulps and pulls back, ready to confess, to give up this terrible thing inside him if it will just give back the Dean from before.

Dean wipes at his tears, hand cupping Sam's cheek with a tenderness Dean rarely reveals. “When'd you get so fucking beautiful, Sammy?” Dean swallows and his eyes darken to the color of wet pine needles. “I want to eat you alive Sam. I was so fucking afraid of this of what it could do to us. Never could say no to you. I tried this time and look what I've done.”

Before Sam has time to process the words Dean is leaning in, kissing first one eyelid, then the other before pulling back. “I was so damn afraid to even touch you. Knew if I gave in, even once, I'd never stop. I'd do every dirty filthy thing I could think of and look for more. I'm hopeless over you Sammy. I always have been.”

“Are you – ?”

Before Sam can ask, Dean says, “Yeah, Sammy. Not doing this, well... I've noticed how it's messed us both up even if I pretended not to.” Dean's hand moves over his cheek and his thumb swipes along Sam's bottom lip. “So fucking innocent, Sammy. How can I mess that up? Have you even kissed anyone?”

Sam hasn't, but any words he has are clogged in his throat. _He wants this, wants Dean, can't believe it's real, will he fuck it up?_ The thoughts flit through his mind, but never make it out. One thought sticks. _Take this before he changes his mind._

Sam lunges for Dean's lips, but never makes contact. Dean's hand is splayed across his chest and holds him back. A sob creeps up Sam's throat and he chokes it down.

Dean's hand strokes up his chest, and cups his jaw. “Shh. I got you.” Dean's other hand strokes small circles in his back. “You got to be sure, Sam. This isn't like giving you the last bowl of Lucky Charms or covering with Dad when you don't do PT. It's fucked up, and it's illegal in every state. I don't even want to think what Dad would do if he found out.”

Sam plants both hands on Dean's chest. “I'm sure, Dean.”

“You better be. No take backsies, Sammy.” A soft smile curves Dean's lips up, and Sam wants to taste that smile, lick it from Dean's mouth. “If we start, I'm not going to be able to give you up, you understand?” The smile is gone, leaving behind a Dean stripped bare of defenses, eyes scared, and love filled at the same time.

This time when Sam tries to kiss him, Dean doesn't stop him. Instead, Dean's hands wind into his hair, cradle his skull, guide him into a brush of lips, then another. Sam doesn't want soft. He bites Dean's bottom lip. A yip falls from Dean's mouth and his grip tightens, making Sam the one to yelp. Sam slides his hands around Dean's neck and presses his lips tight to Dean's.

Dean chuckles and says against Sam's lips, “Open up for me, little brother.” Sam's hips buck at the words and he does as he's asked, opens to Dean's tongue.

Dean licks him open, tastes his mouth, explores his teeth and Sam arches into it, clings, whimpers, slings his leg over Dean's and grinds.

When Dean retreats, Sam mimics Dean's moves. He licks across the seam of Dean's mouth begging entrance. His tongue slides between those lips he thought he'd never taste. Sam maps the ridges and bumps of Dean's teeth, and at the same time he circles his hips looking for friction.

Dean's hands move down, cup his ass and pull him closer, so close. Sam whimpers his arousal into Dean's mouth, and his brother groans.

They pull back when they can't breath, panting, foreheads touching.

Dean's lips travel along Sam's jaw line. Sam's hands slip between their bodies, curving around Dean's waist. Sam wants to touch every inch of Dean all at once, eat away at his freckles, devour his skin, come on his belly. He's greedy, blood pounding out _now now now,_ ; his cock throbs as he ruts against Dean's thigh.

Suddenly Sam's flipped onto his back. Dean's snug between his legs and his wrists are captured over his head in Dean's vise like grip. He's never felt safer. “Easy, tiger. There's no rush.”

Sam clamps his thighs around Dean's hips and arches into him, rubs their cocks together, his eyes locked to Dean's. His brother's eyes darken and a moan slips between his lips. Sam didn't know Dean could look like this. His imagination wasn't even close. Dean is a dark god, beautiful and savage as he leans in with a growl and bites Sam's earlobe. Sam pumps his hips and comes in his pants, pulses of pleasure surging through him.

Dean's hands soothe his wrists and stroke down his inner arms as he slides down Sam's body. A chuckle is gasped over his belly button, and Dean looks up at him through his eyelashes and grins.

Sam covers his eyes with his arm.

Dean rucks up his shirt and kisses are placed to each of his ribs, interspersed with words of devotion. “It's okay. I've got you. You're perfect.” Eventually Sam uncovers his eyes, embarrassment washed away in sacrament.

Sam asks, “What about you?” Sam wants to make Dean feel the same way Dean made him feel.

Dean waggles his eyebrows, ridiculous and adorable, and Sam can't stop his grin from creeping out from behind his lips. “We've got all the time in the world, baby boy.”

His hoodie is bunched up under his arms, and Dean sits up and strips it off of him. Sam's arm instinctively reach to cover his too skinny chest and baby fat tummy, but Dean cuffs his wrists and holds them at his sides. “You're perfect, Sammy. So goddamn beautiful. You were so responsive. Can't wait to do every thing to you, find every noise and shudder I can take from you.”

Dean releases his wrists, turns his palms up and drags his thumbnails over sensitive skin. Sam shudders. Dean's voice drops lower, rough as a cat's tongue. “Want to teach you how to touch me.” Dean's sits back and his hand goes to the prominent bulge between his legs. “You want that, Sammy?”

He does. So damn much. With Dean's words comes courage and confidence, and Sam says, “Want to see you too.” Dean reaches around himself, the muscles in his toned arms bunching, and Sam knows what it is to swoon. The room is lopsided, and his dick gives a half-hearted twitch. His brother is the most beautiful person Sam's ever seen, fit and golden, freckles sprinkled over pale skin. Sam licks his lips and imagines drawing dot-to-dots in spit all over Dean's skin.

The clock gives a screech moan and Sam hears the door make the halfhearted click that signals midnight.

Dean leans over, kisses him, and mutters against his lips, “Merry Christmas, Sammy.”

For once Sam got exactly what he wanted. “Merry Christmas, Dean.”

 

“We have not touched the stars,  
nor are we forgiven, which brings us back  
to the hero’s shoulders and the gentleness that comes,  
not from the absence of violence, but despite  
the abundance of it.”

                                           _Richard Siken_


End file.
